


Family is...

by Tia_Pixie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Durin Family, Durin Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Hobbit, and Balin is wonderful, because I underuse Balin, graphic description of Frerin's death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tia_Pixie/pseuds/Tia_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories and/or what each member of his close kin mean or represent to Balin.  Although this isn't actually part of my series, it is within that 'verse so there's really no reason it can't be read as such.</p><p>"They have been each other’s playmates, confidants, and co-conspirators; they have faced kings, elves, beasts and orcs, and they have not wavered much."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin is...

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve had something of a block recently as several of you will know, and I thought I might try something in a totally different style of writing. They are very much a personal thing because they are essentially my character notes that I use for background: past fallouts, childhood memories etc. – things that I have in mind but don’t necessarily mention in my usual writing for whatever reason. I’ve expanded on them and made them up to be fairly decent lengths but thus far have only managed Thorin and Frerin in full. Nevertheless, here is my offering, a sort of relationship study of all the things each person means or represents to Balin. Because I like Balin but find him difficult to write in first person, and feel I underuse him in my stories.
> 
> So these will be pre-book/pre-movie and end around the time Thorin ascends to King-in-Waiting in Ered Luin. I am undecided as yet as to whether I will continue on to chapters for Fili and Kili, and, if I do so, whether I will then do additional chapters for the original few to take them all up to the end of the book. I don’t mean to sound as though I am blackmailing you, but it will depend very much on how this story is received – not in terms of number of reviews necessarily but just because I’ve never written in this style, or from Balin’s POV and I don’t want to continue posting them if nobody likes them (though I will continue to write them but not so fleshed out or coherent-ish).
> 
> Age is irrelevant because it covers many decades but before book-lovers read this and begin to cry ‘For shame! Thorin is the eldest etc.’ I will offer the flimsy excuse that movie!Balin is quoted as being one of the eldest and in some sources, the eldest of the company and so it is my own headcanon that he is older than Thorin by some five to ten years, why? Because it suits me to think him as such and I reserve the right to pick and choose the bits I like from each !verse and use them to meet my own ends. While we’re on the subject, it may be worth noting that I also insert Dwalin between Thorin and Frerin but that’s really more of a mistake on my part that I haven’t been able to shake off. Birth order is as follows: Balin, (Oin), Thorin, Dwalin, Frerin, (Gloin), Dis. I have no notes whatsoever for Oin or Gloin so at the moment I have no plans to write chapters for them despite their being as closely connected to the Durin line as Balin & Dwalin are…sorry.
> 
> All that being said, I hope you might find time to leave a line or six and I will get back to each of you. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the humongous author’s note. Dear Lord….

 

* * *

Thorin is heir to the throne, second only to his father.   He is unimpressive, ugly and his cries would wake the dead if he were not so doted upon that he is hushed before he starts up.  He is pudgy, grasping hands that pull at Balin’s hair, and sharp orders to ‘ _be kind to your cousin, Balin_ ’; sometimes Thorin is resentment and a feeling of utter displacement.  But Thorin is also gummy smiles and unblinking eyes that lend credence to any tall tales Balin cares to tell their elders.  He is soft breaths that tickle Balin’s face when they tire of being fearsome warriors and lay down to be sleeping dragons instead.  He is a deadweight that hangs on Balin’s sleeves and squeals in delight as he is dragged from room to room across the polished stone floors.  He is all heartbroken pleas and clumsy petting when Balin takes a tumble and breaks his nose against the floor because Thorin the Dragon does not care to be climbed upon whilst sleeping.  Thorin is gentle reassurances that he is the best friend a dwarfling could ask for, and no usurper – particularly one as earsplittingly loud as Dwalin – will change that. 

 

* * *

 

Thorin is days of watching him sigh and pout his way through lessons because he would rather be playing with Dwalin than stuck in a musty room full of scrolls with a teacher as old as the mountain itself.  He cannot lift a single weapon but his hugs when Balin swears he will not tell just about squeeze the life out of Balin.  He is all undivided attention and Balin is his favourite person in the world when they play alone, but when Dwalin joins them he favours his brother to the point of ignoring Balin completely.  Thorin is shushed weeping and assurances that a younger brother truly is not the end of the world, and indulgent conversations as he attempts to decide whether Frerin is a thing to be cherished or loathed.  Thorin is ruthless in training and repeatedly lording his newfound skill with a sword over Balin, but he is also wounded looks of betrayal when Balin finds his own skill with an axe that Thorin cannot hope to wield for at least another two years.  Thorin is catching him ‘borrowing’ balms from the infirmary to soothe his abused muscles when the indignity of Dwalin wielding weapons that Thorin cannot becomes too great and the young prince would rather do himself an injury than bear it any longer.  Thorin is looking on in pride and just a little jealousy as he grows tall and strong – far taller than Balin despite his superior age – and is raised to the highest class in training whilst Balin lags behind.  He is not so gentle reminders that it is not only Dis who craves her elder brother’s attention; that any skill Frerin has perfected in combat comes only from the desire to emulate his brother and avoid disappointing their elders.  

 

* * *

 

Thorin is standing at the ramparts and feeling the air grow heavy, a sound like thunder ripping through the skies to the mountain.  He is cowering behind columns, clutching at one another and feeling a heat such as they have never known as Smaug the Terrible descends upon Erebor.  Thorin is helplessness and terror at watching a young cousin sprint further away into the mountain in search of the king.  He is swearing that if he does not return, Balin will never forgive Thror his folly or greed as long as any of them live.  He is feeling the first stirrings of true hatred and betrayal in Balin’s heart as Thorin’s desperate plea to the elven king goes so disdainfully ignored.

Thorin is a surprisingly small ball of quaking shoulders and stifled sobs, which, rather than relaxing beneath Balin’s sympathetic touch, goes rigid and bloodies his nose before storming away in silence.  He seeks out Balin’s comfort later though, and it is all either of them can do to muffle their own cries amidst the mourning of so many others.  He is the knowledge that stories that may soothe one cousin into sleep may also send the eldest into blind rages that despite Balin and Dwalin’s best efforts, are only quelled by being violently struck down by the Thror or his son.  He is bloodied hands and tremulous breaths that beg forgiveness from the wrong person for losing all patience and meeting his brother’s adolescent rebellion with a violence that borders on the vindictive.  Thorin is no words exchanged as Balin watches him lay his warmest fur over his exhausted younger brother – a brother who now refuses to be near any of them.  He is bloodshot eyes within a face blackened by soot, and standing shoulder to shoulder to _demand_ their just pay at the doors of men only to have those doors slammed in their faces.  

 

* * *

 

Thorin is urgent whispers and wordless conversations as they sit at counsel with their elders and earnestly swear allegiance to Thror who reads usurpation and collusion into every look that passes between them.  He is a voice that has run hoarse with pleas for mercy on his brother’s behalf, that voices no defence when Frerin accuses him of holding him back from the glory of battle, and that Balin lies awake listening to long into the night as Thorin prays to Mahal for safety and happiness for his siblings, and for his people.  He is the youngster who is a warrior now whether they want it or not, and who, on the morn of battle, stands before the leaders of the Seven Clans, with a fierce grip upon his half-armoured brother’s shoulders, and tells their king ‘ _No’_.  Thorin is the eyes that burn with heartbreak and rage as a defiant Frerin kneels to their king and swears his own allegiance, desperate to prove himself ‘ _more than just the spare’_.

Thorin is a half-glimpsed whirlwind who stands back to back with Dwalin and makes corpses of any foul creatures who cross their path.  He is the gut-wrenching cry, heard over all others as their king meets his grim end.  He cleaves The Defiler’s arm from his body and if death in battle were to come to Balin, he swears he would die with Thorin’s name as his battle cry for there was no other _king_ – not Thror, nor Thrain, nor even Durin himself – for whom Balin would more gladly die.  Thorin is a prince, who stands atop the corpses of their enemy and rallies their people, brings them victory where there was only death.  He is Oakenshield, and still he lays down every weapon to hold his fallen brother once more.  He is strong as the mountain itself, and his knees go from under him as he makes to light the fire beneath the pyre.  But he is only one hero amongst many, and when all is quiet but for mourning cries, Thorin still bows his head and will hear no word of Balin doing otherwise as he kneels and swears allegiance to his father.  

 

* * *

 

Thorin is haunted eyes within a pale face, and does not speak for days as they retreat back to find their people who wait for word from them in Dunland.  He is Dwalin’s stepping in and bodily removing Dis from the vicinity when, because she cannot ever be told the truth of it, she cannot or will not see past Thorin’s part in Frerin’s death.  He is a year’s travelling to settle in Ered Luin, where they will stay until the time is right – a year of silence broken only when it becomes clear that Thrain’s control of his own emotions is sporadic at best and their people are in need of leadership.

Thorin is the pride of a prince who will not seek anyone’s charity and the beating down of a man who cannot feed his own family, let alone his people.  He is humbling themselves to beg at doors, and hardening themselves to the vicious taunting and cruel beatings such vagrancy inspires.  His is the banner under which Balin seeks alliance with their Northern cousins, and welcomes dwarves from throughout the fallen cities of Belegost and Nogrod into their midst.  Thorin is the one who can summon no tears for Thrain’s disappearance but screams his throat raw when he sees how their father’s ‘death’ affects his sister.   He is candles burned so low that there is nothing left, and fingers worked to the bone as he strives to give his sister and his people the home they deserve but many have never known.

 

* * *

 

Thorin is every harsh word, and every gentle touch that he has ever experienced.  He is every triumph, and every disappointment, every joy and every grief.  Thorin is a king’s confidence and a younger cousin’s bravado.  He is harsh reproaches in some matters and whispered reassurances in others.  He is Balin’s oldest friend, more brother now than cousin and whose opinion Balin values above any other’s as Thorin does likewise.  They have been each other’s playmates, confidants, and co-conspirators; they have faced kings, elves, beasts and orcs, and they have not wavered much. 

Thorin is king, and cousin and brother and _laddie_ and when Thorin calls upon him, Balin will answer his need without thought for Thorin is King, and he is second to no one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had orignally planned to write these in order of birth (according to me) but since it's been months and I've written exactly 10 words for Dwalin and this chapter has been written since before Thorin's, I figure I'll post it now and if by some miracle I find the inspiration for the other chapters I might move them to be in order. So...here is Frerin.

 

* * *

Frerin is so very young. He is washed by a midwife but is still purple-faced, deafening, and evidently devastated to have been thrust out into this dark, cold hall but he is just about as precious a thing as Balin has ever seen. Frerin does not know gold, nor jewel, nor even silk as it is wrapped about his writhing body and he is placed in his king's arms for the first time. His are huge, pale eyes that blink sleepily at the fireside and soft, golden hair that ripples in the wake of his pillow's snoring. He is stamping feet and a scowl worse than Thror's, but he is also trembling lips and apologies that are muffled by another's shoulder. Frerin is an unyielding and self-pitying lump to be found after hours of searching, beneath furs and inside cupboards, who can only be tempted out by promises of stories and cuddles by the fireside. Frerin is badly sung lullabies and formidable pouting should his infant sister's attention be drawn away from him. Frerin is a child's laughter hurriedly stifled by small hands as his prey walk so unwittingly into his trap. He is cut fingers and banged knees requiring endless sympathy lest he  _die_  from his injuries.

* * *

Frerin is all arms and legs, and all things point towards his achieving a height as great, if not surpassing that of his brother and cousin. He does not care for lore or diplomacy. Frerin is filthy jokes and insolently raised eyebrows that speak a challenge to all who see them be they dwarf, man, or beast. He is angry curses that are ruined by his helpless giggling from underneath merciless assailants with no compassion whatsoever for ticklish younger cousins or brothers. Frerin is impossibly wide-eyes, and shaking hands that cling to his small sister's shoulders as they search for their kin in the wake of the dragon.

* * *

Frerin is a silent, exhausted passenger who holds obediently fast to Balin's back as they make their slow way from Erebor to the Iron Hills and then on to Mahal knows where. He is a shadow with nervous, ever watchful eyes who does not move from its place at their side for many months. He is their ever-present companion, only lulled into sleep by quietly told stories of his lost mother whom he had barely known but for whom he had so desperately searched as they escaped Erebor. Frerin, along with his brother, is an interruption to an already fitful sleep – a furious, half-mad hurricane of gnashing teeth and flying limbs that retreats in resentful silence to tend his wounds alone. He is a mess of dirt and blood who later trembles in Balin's embrace and leaves damp patches on his shoulder and neck.

* * *

Frerin does not understand his grandfather's actions, nor does he feign any sympathy when Thror bemoans the loss of gold over that of his daughter-in-law. Frerin has yet to comprehend how gold and power may turn a dwarf to madness, and he, like so many of his fellows, does not understand why a kingdom of men should refuse them shelter. Frerin is the indignant rage of a prince and, like his father and grandfather expects no less than total adulation from the strangers he encounters. Frerin is proud, but not so proud that he will not beg food for his siblings or cousins. Frerin is resentful glares and spat out words, but does his share and then some when the inevitable fighting comes. Frerin is a figure up ahead who pauses only for his sister's sake and does not sit up into the nights with any of them anymore except when it is his turn on watch. Frerin is hacking coughs that wake Balin from his slumber, and nigh on blue lips because he would rather freeze than ask them to share theirs furs with him and risk being refused. Frerin is a lonely fortnight's wait in some deserted outbuildings on the borders of Dunland, the lad half-dead from a fever that rips screams from his throat and leaves Balin near weeping from fear of losing him. Frerin is the joy upon his sister's face, coupled with his elder brother's overwhelming relief as they are all reunited in the next town.

As they settle there, and fate seems for once to smile upon them, Frerin appears once more as musical laughter and teasing comments. But Frerin does not voluntarily seek company with any but his sister; he is a watchful gaze glimpsed through cracks in doorways, and hurried footsteps retreating around corners as their meetings adjourn. Frerin is biting accusations of abandonment, and is victorious in fights simply because they no longer have the energy with which to indulge his adolescent fury; his combat training, though hardly necessary, serves him well and they no longer worry for him when they talk of leaving the two of them in favour of reclaiming their old domain in Moria. He is overheard words of half-hearted comfort murmured over his sister's stifled weeping as his ascension to king-in-waiting becomes ever more likely. He is Thorin bellowing curses at their kingand each of them in turn trying to reason with their elders to halt the madness that would cause Thror to lead all three of his heirs – two of them decades short of adulthood – into battle at once. He is hushed arguments on the eve of battle as they attempt in vain to persuade him into disobeying Thror's orders to join them. Frerin is the badly concealed fear that darkens his eyes and pales his face as they march on Azanulbizar.

* * *

Frerin is his signature blade embedded in the skull of an orc who would otherwise have cleaved Thorin in two as he stood frozen by their king's death. His is the petrified scream of a child cornered by monsters that they had once been told were imaginary. Frerin is each of them slashing apart foe after foe in their efforts to get to him only for more to block their path. Frerin is his brother and cousins' names, screamed first in terror, in helpless agony, then in begging condemnation and finally, in childlike resignations as his pleas go unanswered. Frerin's is a guttural cry, cut short by its owner's throat being ripped out by foul hands that throw great globules of precious carrion as Frerin had once thrown snow. He is Thorin's sudden roar, inarticulate with grief as he single-handedly destroys The Pale Orc before rallying their forces once more and leading them on to a hollow victory.

Frerin is a gauntlet that is recognisable only by the rings adorning its occupant's fingers and lies ten feet from its body. He is eyes that would be open and staring were one of them not gaping and bloodied. His is a body that ought to have been protected by armour no blade could have pierced had it not been sold many moons ago in favour of food for their people. Frerin is their having to watch Thorin reach out with shaking fingers to caress a face that is near unrecognisable. Having to watch Dwalin lay one enormous hand upon hair that had only recently begun to grow thick. Frerin is watching Thorin clutch his broken brother to his chest and howl for their father.

* * *

Frerin is young. He is washed by Thorin's own hand and lies pale, silent and still. He does not know pain, nor grief, nor even does he feel as he is gathered into his brother's arms for the last time. Frerin is a child subjected to a rushed funeral that they would not usually have given even to a criminal for all are equal at the gates of Aüle's halls. But he is placed atop a pyre of his own for they will none of them see him burn amongst the bodies of those who condemned him to his fate in the first place, whether they be kin or no.

Frerin is Dwalin's silent support and Thorin's trying  _so_ hard to be brave and do what he knows must be done. Frerin is the acrid, cloying smell that will stick in Balin's throat for the rest of his days as it eventually falls to him to light the fires when Thorin falters. He is the memory of a heat upon Balin's face that is more emotive, and more devastating than any dragon fire. He is Dwalin's seeking comfort in his elder brother as he has not done in a decade, and Thorin's outright refusal to do so even when it is offered him. His is a horror that they have all sworn without words that they will never speak of. He is Thorin's silently standing his ground and allowing Dís to beat her fists against him until she falls to the earth and screams herself hoarse for Frerin and the love that they had shared. It is a loss that Balin cannot ever allow himself to forget, that he does not even try to forgive.

* * *

Frerin was so very young, and he is still one of the most precious things Balin ever set eyes upon.

**Author's Note:**

> :/


End file.
